SILHOUETTE                                                                        

Her matt black satin silhouette

the trace of her he can’t forget

bold outline he once drew himself

the shape of she he never met.

 

Yet nearly did: some day, some time,

now gone, now dust – he cannot find

the where, the when, the start, the end,

ill lit inside his darkened mind.

 

Save the thought of shallow shafts

of sunlight which before her cast

a shadow pulling her towards

a trysting place? Or will she pass

 

without a word, a sign, a glance?

her face unseen, unhappy chance

that she appear in silhouette

and momentarily entrance

 

this man who craves adoring eyes

that sparkle when she’s by his side;

bright eyes whose lids close to be kissed

then open to release a tide

 

of all the feelings to be shared

with him, her confidant, who cares

completely, nothing swept aside –

two trusting souls, two magpies paired.

 

He chokes a tear, the thousandth time,

then tries a smile but makes a kind

of grimace to the mirror’s face –

which only serves to emphasise

 

the lines dug deep across his brow

and those that down his cheeks have ploughed –

the trappings of a loveless life

alone and lonely in a crowd.

 

He sits, sighs, lights a cigarette

and, looking through the TV set,

he locks his gaze there on the wall,

her matt black satin silhouette.